“Honey, these brownies are so fudgy, they practically melt in your mouth.” “That’s what they’re supposed to do, dearie. What happens in the mouth, stays in the mouth. That’s the baker’s code, you know.” The smell of warm vanilla and melting chocolate hung thick in the air, a comforting scent that December mornings often carried in their embrace. The air in the bakery was tinged with sugar and cinnamon, a delicious reminder of the holidays coming just as much as the stacks of gingerbread men and the overflowing display case of Christmas cookies. "Oh, but Hazel, these are beyond fudgy," a skeptical voice scoffed. "They're practically suicidal. One bite and you’ll be halfway to a sugar coma.” "Nonsense. A little something sweet never hurt anyone," "Not if they knew what they were getting into." "But…but I make them to their liking. Everyone around here knows a small spoonful of sweetness is needed for a day like this." "Well…I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” came the hesitant response. "They've already ordered two dozen sugar plum rolls and a dozen cranberry scones. ‘Less sugar for a grumpy neighbour,’ you said.” “They’ll be cyclists, cyclists develop a ‘taste’ for bike metaphors." "I hope they're prepared for a quick trip back to reality afterwards."